IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR THE STUPIDEST THING HE'D DONE IN HIS LIFE, SCOUT WOULD HAVE SAID GETTING DRUNK FOR THE FIRST TIME DIDN'T GO ALL THAT BAD. After all, it didn't take long for his stomach to turn itself inside out and empty its contents into the (surprisingly clean?) toilet bowl in front of him -- which, by the way, he didn't get a chance to thank his benefactor and host for. He didn't get to do a lot of things that night, at least after that... other thing. The floor was so cold and cool, the heat that began in his heart and spread to his face so hot and humiliating -- his brain evidently decided it just seemed easier to lie there for however long it took for the party to die down below. When the vaguely pleasant feeling of thrumming, vibrating music finally began to dissipate, Scout eventually forced himself to push his body off the floor, sitting up in the same position as he had been before. Had he fallen asleep? He must have.

Even before bringing a hand to his cheek, Scout could feel the indented crease of the tile on his skin. It didn't hurt exactly; more like a pressure that had been lifted, but didn't quite seem like it had gone away completely. It had left its mark, its presence. His fingers grazed the cut on his cheekbone from when he'd been jumped, and he nearly jumped out of his skin upon feeling the scabbed over area -- the alcohol was working its way of his system, leaving an open gate for anything and everything else.

Something wet caught his attention, and he's forced to wrench his eyes away from the empty spot beside him to... what looks like water? Fingertips glistening and brain still not fully functional (But then again, when is it ever), Scout brought the suspiciously damp skin to his mouth and licked it, frowning when he found absolutely no taste. So, water, some logical part of him wants to say, conclude and be done with it, but there's something else. He blinked. Blinked again.... Several more blinks later -- and what he hoped would not somehow turn into some kind of weird eye issue in the future -- and there it is.

Tears. Obviously, says the logical part of his brain (Seriously, where was this before?). If the coin-sized puddle of water on the floor where his face used to be wasn't any indication, maybe the buckets of tears he was pretty sure he cried might ring a bell. His memory was hazy, not nonexistent. Although he kind of -- scratch that, really -- wished it was.

And despite how heavy his heart felt right now -- as though the organ in his chest was water-logged to the extent of collapse, thanks for asking -- his brain had no problem fleshing it all out once again, as if he hadn't been the one to actually experience it. Flashes go by -- an image here, a vague still of jumbled faces there -- until landing on exactly what he dreaded thinking about.

Steve is there. Not surprisingly, seeing as how he was the one who'd brought Scout up here in the first place. He wanted to focus on before, when they'd just been sitting together in each other's company, not speaking (even if it was because his face had been shoved in a toilet bowl...priorities). He wanted so badly to do nothing but think about the boy's smile, the way the corner of his mouth lifted up at the hint of humor, the way he thought enough about him to think to bring that stupid, kiddy juice box because he remembered Scout technically didn't drink. He remembered all of it, and he wanted none of it.

The look of horror on Steve's face, for one. As if it were unthinkable to even have such feelings for someone Scout knew he was willing to die for, even, if it ever came to that. Okay... so maybe he's being a bit dramatic (Honestly? Dying sounds kind of extreme, so maybe Sober Scout would want to give that a quick rethink) but the selfish part of him whispers -- no, shouts, because he's still got that hangover to deal with -- that he deserves at least that. If not the relationship.... at least he can bitch about it.

And cry about it. Because he very much wanted to continue doing that too.

"Scout?"

He yelped way too high-pitched, enough so that his weird combo of drunk/nearing sober/hangover self had enough rationale to be embarrassed, his cheeks heating up even more than he would have thought possible at the sound. His elbow painfully thwacks! against the base of the toilet as he scrambled to sit up and see who it was, adding a smarting sort of tingling sensation running up and down his arm to his list of pain. Physical pain, that is. Emotional pain? Whole. Other. Level.

"Agh... fuck!"

Just what he needed, Scout thought bitterly, too invested in his arm to remember to look up to see who caused it. The universe really did love to meddle.

When he did finally look up, a frown greeted him. "What... are you doing in here?"

It was Letitia. Looking like she'd just shuffled from the party downstairs -- her previously perfect hair now a tied back mess; makeup smudged -- Letitia bore an expression surprisingly similar to his, considering how much fun she seemed to be having earlier. Her black boots were still on, but the laces were in various stages between partly undone and entirely loose, and her shirt lingered around her belly button -- probably thanks to hard partying. Her fist clenched the festive scarf, limp in her grip, its hem just barely skimming the floor.

Maybe it was the gravitational pull of his pathetic state. After weeks of trying to get her to talk to him, there she stood, looking down on his crumpled, pitiful state like a charity case she'd forgotten to take care of. Okay, so maybe he was being a bit harsh... but one thing he most definitely is not is in the mood. He's definitely not in the mood.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Scout replied curtly, rubbing his hand over his face, ignoring the stinging pain that followed. It's partly to wake him up a bit -- he still wanted to at least be somewhat there during their first conversation in weeks -- partly to hide his face from his current situation, but she didn't need to know that. Besides, she could still gather that just as easily from the rest of him.

She snorted, but it didn't really sound like her heart was in it. She carefully stepped into the bathroom and gingerly closed the door behind her like they were warring countries trying to write up a treaty, and the two of them weren't supposed to be in the same room. To his surprise, Letitia put herself across from him, lowering herself down via the wall until she was sitting on the floor, mirroring his position.

He still couldn't meet her eyes.

Or maybe that was just because of how shitty he felt right now.

"So..." Letitia paused like she expected Scout to jump right in. "Um... It's -- Well, it's been a second, huh?"

Scout's chest cleaved at that. "Yeah... Yeah, it has."

"Jesus... You must've had fun. You look like shit, Scout."

"Thanks," he grumbled. His voice was starting to sound shot, like he's a middle-aged heavy chain smoker and not seventeen and crying. He made a face as his stomach turned, and he instinctively shifted toward the toilet. He hoped him vomiting wouldn't interrupt whatever awkward conversation they were about to have, despite the latter sounding much more painful. To Scout's personal disgust, his stomach twisted again, like it heard his thoughts. Goddamn it. "Eugh... I had a -- a pretty shit night, actually. Glad to know -- hiccup! -- "Ow... Glad to know I look the part, at least."

His eyes were closed, but if they'd been open, Scout would have seen -- or perhaps even heard, had he been sober -- Letitia soften, a short sigh coming from her direction as he continues to reconsider his life choices. Unsurprisingly, he's made some really questionable ones in the past, but this one? This one definitely takes the cake.

It was bad enough he'd tried to kiss Steve, but to have him pull away like that? The look of contempt on the boy's face was one the blond wouldn't forget, even if he was intoxicated and practically out of his mind. It had seemed to right in the moment, the two of them more or less opposite one another just as he and Letitia are now. His eyes fluttered open, and he winced at the offensively bright light above the sink; just glancing at it burned their shape into his already mush brain. It takes several seconds of blinking just to get it to remotely fade away, and even then he can still see it when he stares ahead, the ghostly image floating in the air just a few feet from the brown-skinned girl's face. Great, he thought, rubbing one eye with the closest thing to a fist his hand was able to form. Now he's seeing things.

Said girl cleared her throat, and strangely enough, she too was avoiding looking at him, her eyes darting around the small bathroom she'd deliberately put herself in. Every few moments they would come back and land on the space between them, their feet only a few inches from touching. They both seemed to be thinking the same thing, because just as Scout moved his shoes closer toward his body, so did Letitia, leaving the two teenagers as unnerved as before -- if not more so.

Scout squinted. Why should Letitia be unnerved? He's the one in the wrong here. Like he'd been repeating since she found out about the photographs, HE was the one who was supposed to be sorry -- God, he hoped she knew how sorry he was -- and keeping his distance. And keep his distance Scout did, despite however much he wanted to walk over to the new friends she'd made in his absence. How funny it is, that Letitia had managed to make a circle of friends in only the few weeks they hadn't been together, as opposed to the years that they had. Was it really that easy? Perhaps it was. But to Scout, it seemed an impossible feat, one he had little chance of succeeding at than if it had been one of the many labours of Hercules.

Which begged the question: was he holding Letitia back? All this time he'd been under the impression she was just as unsociable as he was, but the last few weeks couldn't have been further from the truth. The gaggle of girls -- and even the occasional guy or two, but he knew their interest for attention would be very one-sided -- that she'd hung out with lately all seemed nice enough, if not... Well, stuck-up, if he was being honest. Even with the rather limited crowd of girls who didn't act like clones of Tommy H's girlfriend, Carol, Scout honestly thought Letitia could do better. He'd know her long enough to know she could do better. Except, apparently, when it came to him.

"Your friends," he mentioned, followed by another painful hiccup. "They're -- They seem... nice."

"But they're not you," Letitia finished. She raised an expectant eyebrow, like that's what he wanted to say. Just as Scout knew her, Letitia knew him just as well. "That's what you're thinking, right?"

Okay, maybe. "...Yes," Scout admitted. "I've missed you, man. Being by myself 'n then seeing you with evry'one else... It doesn't..." He hesitated, like maybe the right word will pop into his head before he has to finish. "Feel good," he concluded. "Yeah. Doesn't feel good. And I don't like that."

"Don't like... what?"

"I don't like feeling like that, I guess." Something in his head tells him to quit while he's ahead, but a little whisper replies, No. He wanted to say this. He's waited for her to be this willing to be in the same room with him -- even if it is a bathroom and one he'd recently thrown up in, gross -- for what felt like too long (to him, at least) to decide against speaking his mind. Maybe it's the lingering presence of the alcohol, but he's firm on this. No doubt he'll regret it later, though. "I don't wanna feel, you know -- jealous. You have, you have friends now and, and people you hang out with; I don't gettobe... be mad. You're happy. And -- and maybe you could've been happy before if I wasn't your friend."

Letitia watched him. He couldn't quite place the look she's giving him -- God, why did his head have to hurt so much? At this point Scout had gotten used to the brightness of the lights enough for his eyes to adjust, but unfortunately, the full clarity of the girl's face was still pretty non-existent. The silence was nearly killing him. It takes a good portion of his willpower (what's left of it, anyway. And it's not like there's a ton of it to spare either.) to try and focus, because he really did want to hear Letitia's response. Goddammit, why did it have to be now that she decided to want to talk? It couldn't've been when he was sober?

Letitia was quiet, like she didn't know how to respond. But Scout, even in his weird hungover state, was so used to her behavior that he got the feeling it wasn't finding the right words she's feeling, but rather considering whether or not to share a part of her or about herself at all. But it's odd, a selfish part of him points out, that this is how she's like around him. Hoping very deeply that this is not their new normal, Scout opened his mouth to apologize once again, wanting to save her the struggle of having to choose, but she cuts him off.

"Don't," she said, holding up a hand like she already knew what he was going to say. Her tone wasn't a hard one, but instead like she was asking, her voice much less hard, but somehow still firm. "You're gonna apologize again, and honestly? I don't really wanna hear it. You've said sorry enough times, and I know..." A sigh. "I know you had good intentions, Scout, but what you did... It was really messed up -- and you know that." She hesitated. "And part of me really wants to hate you and stay mad at you, but I honestly think you know what you did wrong, and I've missed you. A lot."

"Are you saying -- a-are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Sure enough, "Yeah. I guess maybe I am." And then she gave a nonchalant half-smile, like even the effort hurts her as much as it looks like it does. "Back to being... acquaintances, maybe? I'm sure we can work our way from there."

Despite everything, Scout still found it within himself to crack a smile -- likewise, his face throbbed as though it hadn't just been pressed on the tile floor for who knew how many hours. "You mean friends, right?"

Letitia straightened her leg and pressed the toe of her boot against his shoe. "Don't get too ahead of yourself, Boy Scout."

A tiny laugh puffed out of his nose, but the dread of what had happened before the brown-skinned girl had found him wasted no time in returning in full-force, completely overshadowing and wiping out whatever happiness Scout experienced in his and Letitia's reconciliation. His grin faded, and like it's a magnet designed to redirect his eyes, he glanced at the empty spot beside him.

"You good, Scout?"

Scout's eyes snapped back to Letitia's brown, and the brief moment of intensity that results is quickly extinguished by the sudden appearance of a quick tear, a tiny droplet of a thing that escapes his right eye and runs the length down his cheek before he's able to blink it away before she notices. Funny; he hadn't even noticed he was tearing up.

The part of him that's ingrained to deny anything that might be wrong -- or even just not good -- wants to quickly reply that he's fine, really. But Letitia knew him better than that, and it's these three simple words that get the waterworks flowing before he can utter a word.

"Oh, Scout," she muttered, tutting like she's a worried grandmother, and it's like the last few weeks have never happened as she scooted over and replaced the spot, sitting beside him with a concerned expression that resembled too much like pity for his liking. To hell with it, his brain seemed to decide. His head, so heavy and laden, has a mind of its own and sets down stiffly on his best friend's shoulder, the tears now flowing freely and dropping like flies onto the soft blue fabric of Letitita's shirt. He wants to wipe them away, even to just shift his neck so they're staining HIS clothing, not hers. His eyesight is blurry, even more so than before, but when Scout tries to move his fingers to confirm they're still there, he finds another hand encasing his.

It almost made him cry even harder.

Finally, when there eere no more tears left in him for what seems like an eternity, Scout managed to stop hiccup-crying. His face glistened with tears and the amount of snot gathering underneath his nostrils is enough to force him to shakily reach over for the toilet paper, but it doesn't make it, flopping uselessly onto his lap like he's just had the hardest workout of a lifetime and not weak from sobbing. His side pulsates in the same manner as the scabbing cut on his face, and the rational part of him wonders why she hasn't asked him about it yet. Thankfully, Letitia (being the absolute best) grabs a ton for him. He blows his nose with a strangled honk! that might have been funny under normal circumstances, but now only sounds pathetic.

"I... I-I kissed Steve."

Her obvious curiosity and concern ready to burst at the seams, Scout can only imagine how Letitia must be gaping at him right now. Part of him was glad he couldn't see her face. "No... you didn't." His brain is too broken and his body too exhausted to answer. "You did?"

"Don't a-act so sur-surprised," the blond mumbled crossly. Steve's face reappears in front of him, and he nearly starts up again. Only when he tastes blood in his mouth does Scout trust himself to speak without his throat closing in on him. "You should've seen him, Tisha! I-I kissed him and then, and then h-h-he pulled away 'n looked at him like I was -- I was shit, or something! I know I shouldn't've kissed him and I-I did and now -- now he hates me, Tisha. Why --" his voice does exactly what he feared it would do, and catches on the word. "Why didn't I j-just stay like the way we were?!"

He could feel the tears begin to stream down his cheeks again, but it isn't him calming down that makes him hiccup (painfully) and rethink. No, instead Scout heard Letitia ask, "Do you like him?"

Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, because that's how the butterflies in his stomach respond when the Harrington boy looks at him with those rich brown eyes that form a mischievous twinkle like golden rays encircling an eclipse. Yes, because he'd stayed by his side in Night Vale and getting arrested and at the library and a dozen other instances he wants to identify but can't -- they all melt, mixing and swirling and making him nauseous enough to remember the way he'd pulled away like even fathoming the idea of romance between them is the most revolting thing in the world. And yet his mind continues, yes yes yes because that's what Scout thought when he pressed his chapped lips against Steve's, processing how the brunette's were softer than anything he'd ever known, soft like a first snowfall, like biting into cotton candy, like melting and floating and being weightless in water -- effortlessly sweet, like anything beyond compare.

"Yes," he whispered.

A simple word, but one that cost so much.